


Aziraphale’s Blue Castle

by madeofmydreams



Category: Blue Castle - L. M. Montgomery, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Image, Closeted Character, Homophobia, M/M, dead naming a character who is off screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29984637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams/pseuds/madeofmydreams
Summary: It was no longer raining outside. He left carrying his book, his bag of tea for cousin Uriel, his umbrella, and tromping through the puddles while the sun shined on his skin. He didn’t realise it, but making the decision to live caused him to stand a little taller. And when he passed by Mr. Crowley-- who was just crawling out from under his 1933 Bentley, hands and shirt streaked with grease-- his smile reached his eyes and took years off his face. Had he turned and looked back he would have seen the man leant against the bumper of his car with a contemplative tilt to his head. As it was he continued forward thinking about how green the foliage was and how nicely it had contrasted with Mr. Crowley’s auburn hair.#Or the one where Aziraphale has been squashed his entire life, Crowley is a mysterious citizen, and Eve is a transwoman in rural NC.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20
Collections: GO-Events Book Fest





	Aziraphale’s Blue Castle

The morning of his 30th birthday Aziraphale Archer woke before his alarm to the sound of rain dripping through the magnolia leaves in the tree just outside his bedroom window. It was a Wednesday. He lay in bed and hated his garish bedroom with its poorly quilted bedspread, and mismatched lamp shades. The wall which was painted an unfortunate shade of purple was bare of any shelves. What secular books Aziraphale had managed to squirrel past his mother were hidden under his neatly folded clothes in his chest of drawers. His devotionals, commentaries, Strong's concordance, and Bible were out on his bedside table. 

He rolled over, and despised the way his pajamas twisted around his waist. It felt as if he had grown even more during the night and he was constricted by the old cotton fabric. He didn’t want to get out of bed and his chest fairly ached with a tightening sort of squeeze that left him breathless. He closed his eyes and focused on the pain, taking shallow breaths until it eased. 

Aziraphale had been to a cardiologist two days ago while in the city on an errand for his mother and so far his patient portal hadn't updated with any test results. Dr. Trent had been called to an emergency just as she was finishing up the exam and the nurse had assured him she’d update the online chart. He rubbed at his first it over his button up pajama top. 

Across the room his phone alarm began to ring. He eased out of bed and stepped carefully to silence his morning summons. His bare feet whispered across the creaky wooden floor. Anytime his steps weren’t timid he heard about it at breakfast. 

“Michael, you won’t believe this, but a thundering herd of elephants woke me this morning.” Cousin Uriel would say with a snide sort of smile. 

Then his mother would tut disapprovingly and say, “Sebby, you really must learn to step lightly, hiding your weight visually does no good if you end up thudding around instead of walking.”

Aziraphale turned off his alarm and stared at the awkward floral still life Cousin Uriel had painted that was hanging on the wall. It hadn’t been deemed good enough to display in the main portion of the house and was gifted to Aziraphale. Everything in Aziraphale’s room had been gifted to him, and he was not allowed to have an opinion on any of it because he was a man.

At least it was raining, which meant there would be no picnic honoring Herself’s birthday today. Thirty years ago Aziraphale had had the misfortune of entering the world on his grandmother’s birthday and his life had been lived in her shadow ever since. Each year she closed the bank and hosted a picnic. When Aziraphale had been young he’d been given a balloon and had Sebby written next to Herself on the birthday cake, but now that he was grown, more than 8 years separated from his college graduation without a wife or any prospects to speak of, his birth wasn’t really something they wanted to celebrate. 

The weather saved him for at least a few weeks, until the next family event, from Uncle Metatron’s tired joke, “What is the difference between a mouse and a Sebby? The mouse wishes to harm the cheese while Sebby wishes to charm the shes.” Which hadn’t been funny the first time it was told on Aziraphale’s 16th birthday and it only grew more irritating the older he got. 

He was safe also from pretending to chuckle when his cousin, Gabriel elbowed him a little too hard and joked, “Better get another plate, Seb. You’re looking like you might waste away if you’re not careful.” Followed by laughter from most of the family that husky Sebby would ever be in danger of wasting away.

He wouldn’t have to goodnaturedly brush it off when Uncle James, the cleverest of the family, mused that, “Sebby’s girlfriend must be busy at home working on her hope chest and that’s why she never makes it to anything.” 

Or keep his face neutral when Gabriel shot back, “You’re not as smart as you think you are, Uncle James, if you think Sebby is man enough to have a secret girl.”

He blessed the rain that saved him from a birthday picnic as well as the Archer family's commitment to tradition. If Herself could not celebrate on the day itself, she did not celebrate at all. Thank whatever gods there were for that. 

Aziraphale unplugged his hand me down phone from the charger and stepped quietly back to his bed. He sank down into the bedsheets and closed his eyes for just a moment. He almost wanted it, a wife and a home of their own; the ability to have someone on his side. He tried to imagine it, holding someone soft, with a swishy skirt on for church, breasts hidden behind a modest sweater - kissing her. He didn’t feel anything other than mild disinterest.

His lover in his blue castle though, made his blood sing with heat. Not that he actually had a lover, or a castle for that matter, but ever since he was young he’d escape the tiny little town he lived in by imagining an impenetrable fortress, a light blue coat of arms against a white banner, turrets, courtyards, and a library. 

When he was in elementary school his castle always had a playmate of sorts. Someone to build with, sneak desserts with, or read with. When he was 10 he envisioned a wedding ceremony with his current imaginary friend and for a while he had a husband, also 10, with cropped blond hair and a snub nose. They went hang gliding together, and tomb raiding, and ice-skating on the pond. 

Later, at age 11 he learned he shouldn't like boys. That 'gay' was something he needed to avoid; avoid looking like, avoid being. He didn't want to burn over it, and so he tried to focus his attention on girls. He'd made a few friends, though they'd long since moved away from the sleepy little middle of nowhere town, and he'd never wanted to date any of them regardless.

He'd had many relationships in his blue castle. It wasn't that he played them, just that as his interests changed the shape of his lover morphed also. Recently he'd found himself wrapped up in thoughts of a man with striking auburn hair and a sauntering stride. This man flouted the expectations that Aziraphale felt constrained by. Aziraphale’s breath came more quickly just imagining him sprawled on a couch. 

That morning, however, Aziraphale couldn't seem to bridge the gap between his drab bedroom and the master suite in his castle. Reality gripped his mind tightly like the smell of burnt popcorn, invading every thought. He was 30 now, lonely and unloved. He'd likely live with his mother until she passed and then be a pitied cousin to Gabriel and his offspring for the rest of his existence. "I may have to live 60 more years," Aziraphale thought to himself in a panic, "we're all horribly long lived. It's nauseating to think about."

He shook himself. At least since there would be no picnic, he could drop by the bookstore that most people just thought of as a coffee shop and buy the latest book by Toni Ashtor. 

Aziraphale was never allowed to read novels, but Toni Ashtor’s books were not novels. They were “Nature guides”—so the owner of the shop, Ms Device told Mrs. Michael Archer—“all about the care and appreciation of plants.” So Aziraphale was allowed to read them. It was permissible, even laudable, to read to improve your mind or your religion, but reading for the enjoyment of a thing was somewhere on par with reality television and thus antithetical to being an Archer. Despite the educational subject matter his mother was a bit suspicious that he enjoyed them too much. Aziraphale did not know whether his mind was being improved or not; but he felt vaguely that if he had come across Toni Ashtor’s books years ago, before coming back after college, life might have been a different thing for him. 

They seemed to him to yield glimpses of a world into which he might once have entered, were he younger, and less rooted to the path of anxiously pleasing his mother and Herself. It was only within the last year that Toni Ashtor's books had been in the bookstore though Ms Device had told Aziraphale that she had been a well-known writer for several years. 

“Where does she live?” Aziraphale had asked. 

“Nobody knows. From her books she must be in the south though, a lot of her nature sections fit with this area, her publishers won’t say a word. Quite likely Toni Ashtor is a nom de plume."

"They're excellent."

“Oh—well—” Ms Device smiled in a fashion that led Aziraphale to believe she wasn't focused on him at all. “I can’t say I care much for plants myself. But certainly Ashtor seems to know a lot about them.” 

Aziraphale didn’t know whether he cared much for plants either.

It was not Toni Ashtor’s knowledge of foliage that enthralled him. He could hardly say what it was—some tantalizing lure of a mystery never revealed—some hint of a great secret just a little further on—some faint, elusive echo of lovely, forgotten things—Toni Ashtor’s magic was indefinable. Yes, he would get the new Ashtor book today. 

At least one happy prospect before him‐‐ and quite a few fears nipping at his heels-- he tread lightly to the bathroom to get ready for the day. He firmly gelled his hair in place, hating it, the texture, the way it felt sticky on his skin; but Uncle Raphael said that it suited him and made him “respectable” so here he was fixing his hair the same way he had for a decade. It wouldn’t do for his fly away blond curls to cast aspersions on the Archer name. 

He stared at his face in the mirror, each flaw screamed at him until he closed his eyes. He didn't need to be able to see his face to wash it. He thought about hiding from his reflection and the impulse left him so ashamed that he faced himself unflinchingly. Too large pores, fleshy eye bags, and acne scars stared back at him. He’d never been attractive, not like Gabriel, but when he was young he had been passable. Men weren’t supposed to be pretty and that saved him quite a bit. Now he just looked tired; older than thirty.

He walked back to his room and dressed, head to toe in navy blue. Dark colors are more slimming but black is satanic-- unless someone has died-- so he’d been long ago relegated to navy. He thought that despite his figure, were he allowed to choose his own clothing and maybe take it to a tailor he might look more lifelike. Money wasn’t to be wasted on things like tailoring though, not when he had a new diet to work on and a jog around the park with Gabriel to look forward to. 

Eventually there was nothing left to be done in his room, the bed had been made, pajamas folded, devotional read, and he couldn’t possibly put off going to breakfast any longer. Delay wouldn’t benefit him anyway. His mother ate exactly at 7:15 each morning and arriving late brought her ire like nothing else. 

Michael Archer ran her home with the precision of a german engineer and would not bend for any reason. It was whispered behind her back that her adherence to the calendar was the death of her late husband-- as she did not allow the use of AC between October 1st and May 1st. 

Frederick Archer had died in December the year Aziraphale was one after an unusually warm fall. On Thanksgiving day Frederick participated in the town's 12k turkey trot, brought down all the decorations from the attic, and then clambered up onto the roof to hang lights before dinner at Herself’s. It was 85 degrees outside and 87 in the house. Not one of the family noticed his heat stroke until Michael found him seizing in the bedroom instead of changing for dinner. He was rushed in an ambulance to the county hospital, the damage already done though, and after a week in the ICU, Frederick Archer breathed his last. 

Aziraphale walked into the kitchen promptly at 7:00 and unloaded the dishwasher. He set aside a few glasses that hadn't come clean to wash by hand and tucked the rest of the dishes into the creaking shaker style cabinets. 

His feet whispered across the hard wood floors that were in desperate need of refinishing and he emptied yesterday's cold coffee from the carafe into the sink. It ponded there. Aziraphale closed his eyes and prayed, out of a vague sort of hope that maybe on his birthday a god might take pity, but when he opened them again the water had yet to recede, instead moving gently back and forth like ripples in a small pond. 

He filled the carafe and set himself to making coffee. Later he'd call Able to come have a look. Of course he'd have to ask mother first, as it wasn't his house, but room would have to be made in the budget for a plumber. 

Breakfast was quiet. His mother didn’t acknowledge his birthday though cousin Uriel did wish him “Many Happy returns.” Michael was in a poor mood because the picnic was canceled and she wouldn’t have anything to do. Her plans had been spoiled. Cousin Uriel complained that the weather made her joints ache and that they were low on tea and, "Would you be able to go to the store for me this afternoon, Sebby?"

"Sebby must be sure not to catch a cold out in the rain." Michael said to the room at large. She pouted in the most straight laced possible fashion, nursing her coffee like it was the only beautiful thing in a miserable life. 

"Mother, I'd rather go by Aziraphale now." 

Michael raised an eyebrow. “What is the matter with Sebby?” 

“It—seems so childish,” faltered Aziraphal. 

“Oh!” Michael had been a Wansbarra and the Wansbarra smile was not an asset. “I see. Well, it should suit you then. You are childish enough in all conscience, my dear.” 

“I am thirty,” said Aziraphale desperately. 

“I wouldn’t proclaim it from the house-tops if I were you, dear,” said Michael. “Thirty! I had been married nine years when I was thirty.”

Aziraphale didn’t feel much like finishing his breakfast after that. 

#

He had to visit Uncle Metatron's store to buy the tea-- a family sized box of Luzianne Decaf-- and he didn’t want to. It was too much to hope Uncle Metetron might’ve forgotten his birthday and, unlike Herself, he would be working if he wasn’t attending the annual picnic. Aziraphale tried entering the IGA as unobtrusively as possible. Which is easier said than done when one is wearing navy blue head to toe and dripping wet from a mile walk in the rain. 

“Sebby!” Uncle Metetron boomed as Aziraphale was shaking off his umbrella and depositing it in the stand.

Aziraphale nodded to him and walked a bit closer to catch his Uncle’s continued conversation.

“Thirty,” Uncle Metatron was saying. “Dear me, Sebby, you’re dangerously near the second corner and not even thinking of getting married yet? Thirty. It seems impossible. How time does fly!” 

“I think it crawls,” said Aziraphale, not even wanting to play nicely.

Uncle Metatron blinked in surprise, then asked what brought him in. 

“Just picking up some tea for the house, and stopping by the cafe.”

“That barista, Anna, isn’t it? She’s a little bit of an odd one. Suits you,” Uncle Metetron said with the kind of wink-and-a-nudge smirk that made Aziraphale have to conceal a cringe.

Aziraphale didn’t bother correcting him. Sometimes it was easier to just let people think what they wanted. He excused himself, picked up the box of tea, contemplated getting a pastry, and then hurried to the cashier. Soon enough he was out in the rain again, listening to it smack into his umbrella, splash onto the pavement. He thought dully about the curious sensation of stepping into a puddle while wearing rain boots, his foot became noticeably cooler but remained dry. His chest ached a bit, and he wondered if the entirety of his 30th birthday would be a procession of unpleasant sensations, one after the next. 

Anathema greeted him with a pleasant nod when he stepped into the book shop and then she continued with wiping down the espresso machine. There was something comfortable about her large glasses and prairie dress. Aziraphale looked around at the half filled shop, waved at a few folks he recognised and stashed his umbrella. The rain hadn’t let up any, but he felt a bit less like a drowning cat stepping into the bookshop than he had Uncle Metatron's store. 

There were cosy chairs tucked around, stools at the bar, and shelves of books lined every wall, used to the left, and new to the right. The lamps on every table made the dim space seem warm rather than drab, and Aziraphale wondered, if he had control over the decorations in his room, would he be able to make that space a haven like this? There were just as many old things in the house as there were here. Perhaps the age of a thing wasn’t what made it tired, maybe there was something in the magic of attention. Sure, his things were dusted and arranged-- because they had to be-- but they were never loved. 

Anathema left her pocket of space behind the counter and plucked a book from a shelf on the “new” side of the shop. “Look what arrived,” she said, handing the book over with care. 

Aziraphale smiled despite himself. “Thank you, dear,” he said. 

Anathema’s serious countenance broke into a mysterious smirk. “I made banana nut muffins this morning,” she offered, walking back behind her counter. 

Aziraphale fumbled for his wallet, and sat on one of the barstools. A muffin eaten in peace sounded delightful-- so much more satiating than a pastry scarfed down while hiding under an umbrella. He fished his card out and slid it across the counter, then opened his new book. 

"Plants are so delightfully and unapologetically themselves-- you must not tell them I told you so because I have a reputation to uphold. There is, however, something enticing that comes from how openly they live life. I strive to carry myself with the same sort of unconcern for what others think. Dressing and thriving as I like without performing to the expectations of those around me.” 

His phone chimed a notification right as Anathema set a hot muffin on the counter in front of him. He thanked her and took a bite while checking it. It was his patient portal saying it’d been updated with a message. His test results and a brief summary from the cardiologist. He skipped over the tests, they didn’t mean anything to him anyway, and began to read. He felt quite sure there was nothing seriously wrong with his heart but—one never knew. 

Dr. Trent’s summary was like herself—blunt, abrupt, concise, wasting no words. Dr. Trent never beat about the bush. “Dear Mr. Archer”—and then a block of black, positive text. Aziraphale seemed to read it at a glance; he dropped the phone on the counter, his face ghost-white. Dr. Trent told him that he had a very dangerous and fatal form of heart disease—angina pectoris—evidently complicated with an aneurism—whatever that was—and in the last stages. She said, without mincing matters, that nothing could be done for him. If he took great care of himself he might live a year—but he might also die at any moment—Dr. Trent never troubled herself about euphemisms. He must be careful to avoid all excitement and all severe muscular efforts. He must eat and drink moderately, he must never run, he must go upstairs and uphill with great care. Any sudden jolt or shock might be fatal. He was to get the prescription she enclosed filled and carry it with him always, taking a dose whenever his attacks came on. And she was his truly, H. B. Trent.

He didn’t know how long he sat at the bar. He was dying. He hadn’t even lived. He’d spent his whole life being Michael’s son, Herself’s grandson, even Gabriel’s cousin. When they left for college Aziraphale thought he might have a chance to just, live, but within a week of moving-- despite the fact that he was on a different floor of the dorm-- Gabriel had the entire campus referring to him as Sebby, and so what little freedom he might have gotten at the tiny christian college in the mountains was lost before it could be realised. 

Aziraphale was a rosebush that had never bloomed in the 30 years he’d been alive and now he was going to go to glory because of some blight or another. He’d never had a single bud, always striving and never looking like anything other than a poorly groomed boxwood. He took in a shaky breath. 

His muffin was gone and there was an empty coffee mug at his elbow. Toni Ashtor’s book still lay open before him next to his phone. “Dressing and thriving as I like…” Aziraphale didn’t want to die having lived as some squashed shadow of himself without ever having thrived. He would make a change. A year, Dr. Trent had said. She was really quite good at her job, he was sure that was accurate.

Aziraphale contemplated telling the family, being fussed over and feeling even more claustrophobic than his life was already; going to test after test and doctor after doctor as his heart gave out. He thought about keeping it a secret, about making his own choices for once. He might finally do something about all the navy blue in his wardrobe, though it seemed a bit wasteful to buy clothing for a dying man. Right now though, Aziraphale was choosing not to care. He would live before he died if he had anything to say on the matter and-- now that he knew he was dying,-- he did.

He pulled himself together, sweeping crumbs off the bar and onto his small plate, then stacking the mug on top. He glanced about, looking for Anathema, and holding up his card when he found her. She shook her head. “It looked like you’d got some bad news,” she said. “I hope your family’s all ok?”

“Yeah, they’re--- fine.” Aziraphale managed. “Uh, friend I went to school with isn’t doing well.”

Anathema’s eyes looked entirely too knowing. “Let me know if I can help with anything.”

“Thank you for,” he held up the new Ashtor book.

She smiled. “I know how much you like plants,” she responded. 

It was no longer raining outside. He left carrying his book, his bag of tea for cousin Uriel, his umbrella, and tromping through the puddles while the sun shined on his skin. He didn’t realise it, but making the decision to live caused him to stand a little taller. And when he passed by Mr. Crowley-- who was just crawling out from under his 1933 Bentley, hands and shirt streaked with grease-- his smile reached his eyes and took years off his face. Had he turned and looked back he would have seen the man leant against the bumper of his car with a contemplative tilt to his head. As it was he continued forward thinking about how green the foliage was and how nicely it had contrasted with Mr. Crowley’s auburn hair. 

Once home he mystified his mother and cousin Uriel by bounding up the stairs and taking a shower in the middle of the day. He returned downstairs twenty minutes later with a wet halo of curls about his head. “You look unkempt,” Michael said with a frown.

“Do I?” Aziraphale responded and proceeded to adjust nothing about his appearance. He sat on the couch and pulled out his Toni Ashtor book to read.

It was strange. There was so very much unknown and he had spent so many hours of his life in fear of causing offence, of being wrong, to the point where he’d crowded out the whole of himself. Somehow the inaudible acknowledgement he gave himself, the silent choice to live out his final year made everything better despite the reaper loitering at his door. 

#

Aziraphale started making changes. He no longer slicked his hair back with goopy gel but instead allowed it to dance around his head in whatever manner it pleased. He drove to the city on his day off and spent $540 dollars on new clothing-- not a single item was navy, or even blue. When his mother asked where he had gotten the money, he blithely informed her that, as an adult he was no longer obligated to share his finances with her but that he’d transferred it from savings. He arrived at breakfast on time, and opened the bank on time, but did not look at all concerned when he received criticism. He refused to answer to the nickname “Sebby”. 

A few weeks after receiving his diagnosis there was a family gathering to attend. Cousins Harriet and Thaddeus Dowling's 11th wedding anniversary dinner. He overheard cousin Uriel talking to his mother as he got dressed. “Don’t you think we should have him stay home, Michael?”

“And tell them what, exactly? He’s been around town and at the bank every day.”

“Surely you could tell him to wear some of his old things at least, he looks a little…” Uriel trailed off. 

“I’m not sure what you think I can do about it.”

Aziraphale laughed to himself. He hadn’t tried to buy anything overtly queer coded, but he had spent several hours reading gay fashion articles online. He’d even purchased some makeup, though he hadn’t put it on yet. Maybe he should tonight. Several youtube tutorials later he had lined eyes that sparkled with suppressed glee. 

The Dowling's anniversary dinner was another annual affair that typically had Aziraphale on the edge of his seat throughout in the hopes of avoiding having to talk or even worse, be the topic of conversation. Gabriel was there with his fiancee, Jessica Stirling. They looked like they'd coordinated their attire via a pinterest board. Around Jessica, Gabriel looked more hipster and less preppy. It wasn't really an improvement. They were a striking couple, but they were also like a dewless morning, there was something lacking. 

They sat around a grand table to eat and the food was brought to them in courses by the staff. Aunt Mary chattered as if the only time she had to speak was at these occasions while Uncle James waited until just the right moment to drop sarcastic one liners. Cousin Thaddeus and Cousin Gabriel discussed cases at the law firm. Everyone commented on the weather and the food and Cousin Uriel said that it was, "such a shame the way culture and young people were heading these days. It's gotten to the point," she continued, "that people don't even respect the president anymore."

"People should have to pass a citizenship test in order to vote," Uncle Metatron said with the air of a person handing out common wisdom. 

"Don't you think," Aziraphale said, "that there are enough barriers to entry as is, and that living where we do-- in the heart of Jim Crow country. That might have quite a few unintended consequences."

“Sebby,” said Uncle Metatron, not at all used to being challenged, “when I am dead you may say what you please. As long as I am alive I demand to be treated with respect.” 

“Oh, but you know we’re all dead,” said Aziraphale, “the whole Archer clan. Some of us are buried and some aren’t—yet. That is the only difference.” 

“Sebby,” said Uncle Metatron, thinking it might cow Aziraphale, “do you remember the time you stole the raspberry jam?” 

Aziraphale flushed scarlet—with suppressed laughter, not shame. He had been sure Uncle Metatron would drag that jam in somehow. “Of course I do,” he said. “It was good jam. I’ve always been sorry I hadn’t time to eat more of it before you found me."

Just then two members of the Dowling's staff started bringing in desert which diverted the family's attention. Conversation meandered to the joys of matrimony, and when those with spouses had nothing left to say on the subject it fell back to a tried and true staple of Archer family get togethers, Anthony Crowley. 

Of course they abused him; nobody ever had a good word to say about Anthony Crowley. He dealt in his free time, had a family on the other side of the state that he never saw, went bow hunting because he couldn’t own a rifle due to a previous felony. Uncle Raphael was very indignant that such a creature should be allowed to exist at all in the neighborhood. He didn’t know what the Sheriff’s Dept were thinking of. Everybody would be murdered in their beds some night. It was a shame that he should be allowed to be at large after all that he had done. 

“What has he done?” asked Aziraphale suddenly.

Uncle Raphael stared at him. “Done! Done! He’s done everything.” 

“What has he done?” repeated Aziraphale inexorably. “What do you know that he has done? You’re always running him down. And what has ever been proved against him?”

“I don’t need proof,” Uncle Metatron chimed in, “when a man goes tearing about in his old car at all hours of the night, doesn’t have any sort of job, and never seems to be out of money. There’s proof enough.”

“I wouldn’t want to run into him in the middle of the night,” added cousin Mary.

“What do you suppose he would do to you?” Aziraphale asked.

“Murder me for the fun of it.” Mary replied. 

“He looks just like a jailbird,” Cousin Thaddeus said with the sort of booming voice that normally puts an end to things. “And we know that just because someone hasn’t gone through due process yet-” he paused for dramatic effect, “doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty as sin.”

“One of his eyebrows is an arch and the other is a triangle,” said Aziraphale. “Is that why you think him so villainous?”

“Sebby!” Gabriel called out. “Why have you been studying his eyebrows?”

This would’ve flustered Aziraphale a few weeks ago when he was determined to slip unnoticed through life. Now, however, he smirked at Gabriel. “Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t noticed what he looks like in the 4 or 5 years he’s lived in our little town? We have what, four thousand residents?”

“The man hasn’t a friend except Roaring Abel,” said Uncle Raphael. “And if Roaring Abel had kept away from him, as everybody else did, it would have been better for—for some members of his family.” Uncle Raphael’s rather lame conclusion was due to a harsh glance from Herself reminding him of what he had almost forgotten—that there were young people at the table. 

“If you mean,” said Aziraphale passionately, “that Anthony Crowley is the reason for Eve Gay’s suicide attempt, he isn’t. It’s a wicked lie.”

“His name is Jacob,” said Uncle Metatron.

“Aziraphale please hush!” pleaded Michael in the kind of whisper that is meant to be heard. 

“I don’t mean to hush,” said Aziraphale perversely. “I’ve hush-hushed all my life. I’ll scream if I want to. Don’t make me want to. And stop talking nonsense about Anthony Crowley.” Aziraphale didn’t exactly understand his own indignation. What did Crowley’s imputed crimes and misdemeanors matter to him? And why, out of them all, did it seem most intolerable that he should have been poor, pitiful little Eve Gay’s false lover? 'Tricking her into believing she's a girl and then tossing her aside' For it did seem intolerable to him, he could not endure to think that he had loved and ruined Eve. He recalled his face on the one of the occasions of their chance meetings—his twisted, enigmatic, engaging smile, his twinkle, his thin, sensitive, almost ascetic lips, his general air of frank daredeviltry. A man with such a smile and lips might have murdered or stolen but he could not have betrayed. Aziraphale suddenly hated everyone who said it or believed it of him.

The excitement was getting to be too much for him, he could feel pangs twisting around his heart and so he stood with as much grace as he could manage. “I’m going to go home now,” he said to cousin Harriet Dowling. “The dinner was lovely. Please give your staff my thanks.” With that he left his relatives behind and headed home.

**Author's Note:**

> I live for validation, if you like it please tell me! If you've read the original how well do you think it was adapted? Thank you so much for reading! There's at least 18k more to come 😆. ♡


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